Blackbird

Author wobbear
Rating General/K
Pairing Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH
Disclaimer Not for profit borrowing of the characters.
Spoilers Leave Out All the Rest, 19 Down and One to Go. Chapter titles from the Beatles song.
Author's note Sorry it's been so long since I updated, but I promise I will finish this. You may want to re-read chapters 1-4 to remind yourself where we've got to — I know I had to. There are several different speakers in this chapter, hopefully the who's who will be clear enough.

Summary Ages after the event, a post-LOATR fic.

5: Blackbird singing

Grissom's poker face is slipping, I tell ya.

That first evening of his stay at Heather's I'm in the kitchen, hot and sweaty after my cardio session on the elliptical machine, cooling off before my shower with a long tall glass of iced water. As I flick through the Wall Street Journal — Heather likes reading the print version, and gets it delivered — I hear the quiet creaking of the stairs. I know Heather's in the exercise room off the garage, so it has to be him.

There I am in sweaty T-shirt and sagging sweat shorts, and suddenly I find myself staring intently at an article about Bonanza High school's star lacrosse player as I wait for Grissom to show himself.

My ears are finely tuned to Grissom's approach and I'm wondering what he's going to say when he sees me here.

What I'm going to say.

No idea.

So I start reading the article. Did you know lacrosse originated in North America, and was probably first played by the Iroquois? Me neither.

The footsteps stop and I take a long glug of water as he clears his throat.

I'm internally debating whether I should look up when finally he speaks.

"Uh … Jim …" He sounds confused. Then, a touch more confidently, he adds, "Hello."

Raising my eyes, I sketch a vague wave as I reply, "Hey, Gil." Trying for casual, even nonchalant. Nonchalant—there's a word I should use more often.

Grissom's frowning, the un-uttered question on his face. He rubs his left thumb across his fingertips as he checks out my clothes. Not "check out" in that way. This is Grissom, after all. He studies, no, observes what I'm wearing. Yeah, that's better.

His eyes narrow in thought. I can almost see the cogs whirring inside that sizeable brain.

"You … you're not on duty, are you."

It's more a statement than a question but I shake my head anyway.

"Or …" he raises his right eyebrow, "waiting to see me."

I smirk gently at that and agree, "Nope".

As Grissom's contemplating what to say next I interrupt his racing mind with, "You want coffee?"

He nods appreciatively and edges over to a chair on the other side of the table. I feel his eyes on me as I go through the familiar motions of grinding the beans and pouring water into the machine. Not that he can have much doubt by now, but it's clear I know my way around this kitchen.

Without words, we agree not to discuss how we both came to be there. Mutually mute, heh. Grissom's word play is catching even when he's not speaking.

Sitting back down, I push a section of the Journal towards Grissom. After Heather finishes her workout she finds us companionably drinking steaming mugs of java, me skimming the money and investment pages and Grissom engrossed in the news section.

Heather launches into, "Gil, good to see you up. How did you sleep?" and I take that as my cue to leave, muttering something about going to get cleaned up as I walk past Heather, patting her on the shoulder.

I'm a dirty cop: I need a shower.

I crack myself up sometimes.

xxxxxxxxx

There's something different about him. I can't put my finger on it, but when Grissom walked into the break room a moment ago it was there.

He's calmly distributing assignments, letting Riley's good-natured grumbling and the guys' light banter play out without comment as he hands a slip to me: 419 in Green Valley.

Could be a lot worse; he could be asking me to help clear his paperwork.

But, as I thought, something's different. Normally once he's handed out assignments, Grissom makes a beeline for his office to pick up his kit or, on stay-in-the office nights like these, the coffee machine. Instead, he stands stock still, apparently rooted to the spot. He looks so very tired, but that's not all. He's … uncertain? No, more like nervous.

Somehow I sense that he has something to add, so I give him a gentle prod. "Is that it?"

To my surprise he says "No," sucks in a tense breath and then continues speaking.

When a bombshell drops it doesn't necessarily make a lot of noise.

Grissom's quiet voice is wreaking havoc.

My gasp is inaudible, I think.

He's leaving.

I'm supervisor.

A new hire.

Grissom's phone bleeps as he winds up his little prepared speech. He's got a case too.

After a pause he adds, "Okay?" He's trying to sound relaxed but his voice is so tightened by emotion it's almost a squeak. Grissom's unfocused eyes dart around the room a couple of seconds before he turns on his heel and escapes down the glass-walled corridor. I see a quick hand reach up to wipe a treacherous tear away from his eye.

A shocked silence hangs in the break room: Nick looks stoic, Riley serious, Greg stunned. And yes, it doesn't happen very often, but even I am speechless.

Wow.

He's going.

He's really going.

Gil Grissom is leaving CSI, of his own volition.

I always used to think he'd depart in a clash of egos and integrity ― his integrity warring with the egos of others.

But it's not like that. I know his heart hasn't been in the job for a while now, and of late he's been pulling back, less engaged. I mean, not answering the phone when he's on call; for Gil, that's like the first sign of the apocalypse. He's been unresponsive to my attempts to get him to talk to me, avoiding my oh-so-casual suggestions of a drink at the Tangiers or dinner at home when Lindsay's out of town on a softball trip.

Recently he seems to have been sleeping a bit better, and one day I saw him getting a ride to work with Brass. Maybe he's been talking to Jim? I hoped it was a good sign, anyway.

Even though I had sensed it was coming, to hear from his own mouth that he's finally made the decision to leave is a shock.

We speak a little later on, when we're alone together looking at custom sneakers. I hide my sorrow; he's had too much sadness lately.

Ah, Gil.

I'm going to miss you so much.

xxxxxxxxx

Despite the fact that Grissom's been Heather's … our … houseguest off and on for the last few weeks, he and I haven't really talked a lot. Unless you count time spent watching sport on TV and debating the relative merits of the Jets and the Bears, the Cubs and the Mets, not forgetting the Nets and the Bulls. He has revealed one item of personal information though, which explains his sports affiliations: after his Dad died, each summer Grissom's Mom sent him to spend part of his vacation with her brother, Uncle Herb, in Chicago and he's followed the Windy City's teams ever since. I haven't yet gotten him hooked on hockey, but give me time.

I leave the quote meaningful discussions unquote to Heather, and he's happy to just chill with me. Suits me just fine.

Grissom's always kept personal stuff very close to his vest (who does that remind me of?) and Heather's very diligent about keeping confidences so, believe it or not, I heard about his decision to leave through the grapevine. I guess he wanted to tell his team first. I can understand that. Even so, I hope we'll get a chance for more than the bullshit boating chat we had at PD. But with Grissom, you never know.

Whatever, I'm happy for him.

xxxxxxxx

I like the fact that we are now surrogate "parents" to Hank. With Grissom busy trying to wind things down at work, making arrangements for his condo and the like, it just seemed easier for me step in and assure the day-to-day care for the canine. His master still takes him for walks and frisbee-catching outings whenever he's free, but I've relieved Gil of the worry of having to co-ordinate with the dog sitter.

Grissom's dog is big but very biddable, and so completely gentle with my granddaughter. I'm so grateful that Jerome and I were able to agree such reasonable access — I have her for two days (and nights) a week. "Big furry boy", as she calls Hank, is happy to act as horse to Allison's jockey — she loves "riding" him around the back yard.

xxxxxxxxx

Maybe I'm unadventurous, but I like hanging around the camp. There's always something to do, and even if I get on better with some people than others, that's life, right?

And since I got the team trained that I like most fruits — but NOT bananas, no matter how much they think that's weird — and I looooove peanuts, things have been great.

Last week the new lady, the long skinny pale one, offered me something on her finger that she scooped out of a round container. Like peanuts, but no shell. Strange, but good. And very sticky. Stick to the roof your mouth and your paws and anything else it touches. Yum. Still not sure what it was, but delicious. She saw me enjoying it, then frowned a little before mumbling something about limited supplies and keeping it for her sandwiches.

No worries. I like peanuts best.

TBC